My Sherlolly Archives
by Bellarsam Chrisjulittle
Summary: A one-word prompt from me will inspire a one-shot, with the help of your feedback and ideas for it. :) Ratings and genres vary for each one.
1. Author's NoteIntro

**AUTHOR'S NOTE/INTRO**

_Hello, my lovely fellow Sherlollians!_

_So, just wanted to let you all know what this archive will be. I call it an archive because it will not be a story but many tiny stories. I recently found a list of about 160ish one-word prompts on a LiveJournal post. On a whim, I wrote them all down, and decided to try and see if I could make a one-shot from each of them that involve our favorite consulting detective and his pathologist._

_Do not expect any regular updates, because I will write these one-shots when inspiration hits me. This will be where I go to destroy writer's block, get more ideas, explore more of the two characters, and just revel in Sherlolly goodness when I want to write and need a break from it all. These one-shots will range in rating, genre, maybe even time period – don't want to limit myself too much._

_I will be writing multi-chapters and other one-shots at the same time, so I plan to be plenty active. I'm telling you, if Benny doesn't lighten up his hold on me soon, I'm going to think I need to see someone about this…then again, no: they'd try to cure me and I DON'T want to be cured. Who the hell would?_

_Now, to keep you all involved, I will post the word before I write the one-shot, so I can hear any ideas, excitement or encouragement from you all before I start. I can't promise I'll take every suggestion, but I will always appreciate them. I'm doing this as much for you all as I'm doing for myself. After all, since we're most certainly not going to get any romance between these two from Gatiss and Moffat (brilliant though they may be), we will just have to rely on ourselves._

_A cute quote from Moffat, though, when he was asked if he ever read the Sherlock fanfiction out there, both he and Gatiss replied: "That's what you see from us – our own Sherlock fanfiction!" So…if they can do it, so can we. _

_Okay, the first one-word prompt is…_**necessary.**

_I look forward to hearing from you all soon!_

_Yours, Bellarsam Chrisjulittle_


	2. Necessary

**Necessary**

No matter how much one may love their job, there will always be an aspect or task in it that one does not particularly enjoy doing. Molly Hooper did indeed love her job. Most would find that odd, since it consisted of slicing up cadavers, but Molly Hooper always knew she was an odd duck. As a pathologist, Molly was one of the best in London. If she hadn't been, Sherlock Holmes would never have first walked into her morgue five years ago.

However, even though Molly loved her job that she was very good at, there was a part of that job she found incredibly dull, tedious, and a pain in the ass: paperwork_._ With each new cadaver came a boatload, even if it were due to natural causes.

Under normal circumstances, Molly was very good about keeping up with paperwork. Though she never liked doing it, Molly hated to fall behind in her work. Unfortunately, since Sherlock Holmes had entered her life, Molly rarely worked under normal circumstances. His constant demand to look at cadavers or her help in the lab meant that she would always fall behind in her paperwork. After all, if Sherlock Holmes wanted your help, wouldn't you rather do that than tedious paperwork. In the end, Molly would always manage to get everything organized and done (if she didn't, she'd have lost her job long ago), but it was never easy.

This week had been particularly difficult. Sherlock and John were working on a serial murder case with Scotland Yard. This killer preferred petite blondes that he would strangle after having his way with them. Yes, this was an ugly one, and the killer was proving to be slippery. Any moment that Molly had not spent on the cadavers had been with Sherlock and John in the lab, doing all of the odd tasks he asked her to do. Molly didn't mind as much this time, because after examining these women, Molly wanted this bastard caught as much as anybody.

Now, it was Friday, and she had the whole weekend off before her. After this week of non-stop stress and work, Molly could think of nothing better than a weekend of much needed relaxation. All she had to do now was make sure her work was all organized and done with so she wouldn't have to come back to a mountain of paperwork Monday morning.

Because of the case and Sherlock's never-ending demand for her help, Molly's paperwork had really piled up over the week. But Molly was quite sure that she could take care of it all by the end of her shift this Friday. Sherlock had been coming in every morning this week, but he had not come in today at all. Normally, Molly was always happy to see him, but she was just fine with not seeing him now. Nothing would stand in her way of a free weekend.

However, around one o'clock in the afternoon, the door to her office opened and a familiar voice spoke. "Molly! I need you in the lab to –"

But the consulting detective didn't get any further than that, because he had stepped on Molly's last nerve.

"_No, _Sherlock! You don't need me to do anything right now. John is more than capable to help you in the lab – he _is _a doctor, after all. I understand how important this case is, because all of the paperwork on the victims _needs _to be done right now or Lestrade and my boss will give me hell. So forgive me if I find doing tedious paperwork more necessary than fetching your own phone from your own pocket in the lab. Now _just go_, and _leave me in peace!_"

Molly didn't even look at Sherlock when she snapped at him. She just lifted her head from the paperwork and directed her burning gaze at the miniscule crack in the wall in front of her. She felt that if she looked at him, her resolve would break and she would leave a mountain of paperwork to be done over her free weekend. And once she was finished, she bent back down over her paperwork, not regretting her actions one bit.

It worked, though. She heard John mutter to Sherlock, "She's right, Sherlock, come on…" John continued to mutter to him as the door to the office closed gently and their footsteps took them away.

It wasn't until hours later, when she closed the last file of now-completed paperwork with a sigh of relief that she really thought about her actions. Remembering what had happened, an exhausted Molly groaned held her face in her hands. _Great_, she thought. _All I've ever wanted for five years, and I've blown it after only three bloody weeks. That's pathetic, even for you, Molly…_

As she felt tears fall into her palms, Molly also felt warm and gentle fingers begin to rub her neck. She jumped in surprise, but immediately realized who it was because his scent filled her nostrils.

"After being in such strain for hours in a hunched over position, it is necessary to stretch and massage the muscles lest you develop cramping and further discomfort," she heard him say matter-of-factly, but his tone was soft.

This brought tears down her cheeks when she closed her eyes. "Sherlock, I'm sorry for snapping at you like that." She wiped her cheeks. "I'm just so tired, and it's been a long week…But I should have realized it has been more frustrating for you, what with the case and all…"

"I solved it an hour ago," said Sherlock, continuing to massage her neck. "A construction worker who's wife had an affair with his brother and looked just like the women he killed."

"Was it the blood I found under the fourth victim's left fingernails?"

"Yes. She was smart enough to fight back, and he was dumb enough to slip with us on his trail."

"I'm glad," she murmured, feeling like she could fall asleep right there, with his warm fingers on her skin.

"Now that the case is over, I had planned to take you to Angelo's for dinner, but clearly you are too tired," said Sherlock.

Molly's eyes flew open, and she immediately stood up and walked around her chair to face Sherlock. It was the first time she had really looked at him today, and it hurt how beautiful he was when she knew she must look a fright after a long day hunched over paperwork. "No, Sherlock, if that's what you want to do, I'll do it!" But then, her words were cut by a yawn she couldn't quite suppress. Feeling quite humiliated and run-down, she hung her head in her hands again. "Oh, Sherlock, I'm sorry."

Gentle hands guided her head to rest against a strong, warm chest, followed by gentle fingers taking down her pony tail and running through her hair. "You have nothing to apologize for. John told me I should have realized you would be busy and stressed because of the case, as well, and I should have taken that into consideration."

"You've nothing to apologize for either, Sherlock," murmured Molly, shaking her head on his chest. "I was just having a bad day at the end of a long week, and the fact that I was doing stupid but bloody necessary paperwork just made it worse."

"Understandable. I can't think of anything more dull than _paperwork_." Sherlock spit the word out in contempt.

Molly giggled. "There isn't, but unfortunately in my career, it's necessary." Feeling much better but still tired, Molly lifted her head and looked at Sherlock. He too looked tired, but in a good way. He'd just solved a case, after all. She smiled. "How about a compromise?"

"Elaborate, Dr. Hooper," said Sherlock, his fingers still playing with her long locks.

"How about we pick up some takeout from your favorite Chinese place, and then go back to my flat to eat it. I can find an episode of _Doctor Who_ that's particularly illogical, and you can criticize it all you want." Her smiled widened, knowing that the more Sherlock criticized an episode the more he enjoyed it.

Sherlock smiled. "A more than adequate compromise." But then he seemed to get a nervous and shy look on his face.

"What is it?" asked Molly, raising a gentle hand to rest against his cheek.

Sherlock closed his eyes at the gentle contact, but opened them when he spoke again. His beautiful eyes entreated her hopefully, even timidly. "You know that I not only do not eat on a case, but I also do not sleep. May I sleep with you tonight, Molly?"

They had only officially become more than friends only three weeks ago, and both had agreed to take things slowly. Molly knew that he was asking for nothing more than what he said. Molly was no stranger to sharing a bed with Sherlock. Immediately after The Fall, when he'd needed to recover from his injuries at Molly's flat, they had shared the one bed. She would even hold him when he had nightmares.

In response, Molly went on her tiptoes, gave Sherlock a gentle kiss, and said happily, "I think, for the both of us, that would be absolutely necessary."

* * *

**A/N: **_There's the first one! Thank you _LadyK1138 _for the idea. Please review and give me some ideas for the next one!_

_The next one-word prompt is…_**journey.**


	3. Journey

**Journey**

For seventeen-year-old Molly Hooper, the summer holidays never truly began until she and her father arrived at their beloved Hazelbrook. This was the name of the small but comfortable cottage that had been in her late mother's family for decades, and where the widowed father and his daughter spent their holidays. It was settled on the South Hampshire coast, facing the English Channel. Living in London, it was always a blessing to have a place away from the great city to escape to, especially when it was only a tiny walk away from the ocean.

Ever since she had been seven-years-old, the first thing that Molly would do upon arriving at Hazelbrook was to run to the ocean, for she always missed it when in London. And upon coming to it again, it would always be more beautiful than she remembered. It never mattered if the day were sunny, cloudy, rainy or even stormy – this was always what Molly did when they came back to this beloved place.

Thankfully, this day was a bright and sunny one, as if it too rejoiced at their reunion. If she had been wearing her swimsuit and not her favorite summer dress, Molly would have jumped off the small tiny cliff and into the ocean instead of skidding to a halt just in time. She knew it was safe, for she had done it many times. But, for now, she would settle for just standing on top of the rockface, relishing in the wind and air from the sea.

Looking at the ocean, she realized that not jumping off the cliff was a very good idea. There was a very real possibility that she might have landed, not in the blue ocean, but on the small but elegant yacht that was passing by.

Molly looked at the boat in awe. She and her father had a comfortable life, but nowhere near as extravagant as that family on the yacht. On the back deck, she saw a small party of people, dressed elegantly in summer dresses and white suits, sipping cocktails and chatting merrily away. Molly knew it was wrong to judge only by a glance, but the word _snob _could not help but cross her mind.

However, her attention only remained on that party of people for a few brief moments. Her eyes were then drawn to a solitary figure at the bow of the yacht. He didn't look any older than her. Despite the warm summer weather, he wore an elegantly-tailored, all-black suit. All that was missing was a tie. He stood straight and tall as an arrow, his alabaster skin gleaming in the sunlight oddly. The gleaming black curls on his head that the sea breezes ruffled, however, gave him an endearing quality that made Molly smile.

Although his appearance and demeanor contrasted sharply with his surroundings, in an exotic way…he was quite beautiful. But the pouting scowl on his face dampened the effect.

The smile on her face faded to a look of wonder as she cocked her head, still staring at him. What reason could this beautiful boy have to look so sullen and sulky? The summer day was beautiful, he was on the ocean, the yacht he was riding on obviously meant he had money, and he was absolutely beautiful. Why on earth did he look so sour when his blessings were so abundant before her eyes.

But before Molly could speculate or wonder any further, the beautiful boy in black had turned his head sharply and looked right up at her.

* * *

Eighteen-year-old Sherlock Holmes did not feel the eyes watching him immediately. He had been too lost in his own thinking (though the correct term he refused to use was 'sulking') to notice anything else. He would rather be anywhere than here.

The next day, he and his family would leave for a summer in Italy. Sherlock would much rather be somewhere in the Far East, but at least in Rome there were plenty of places he could lose himself in the crowds. He wondered if his family could be more irritating? His father was the definition of a self-important and pompous drunk, his mother was the definition of a shallow and vain socialite, and his older brother Mycroft was the definition of all that was annoying and infuriating in this world. If Sherlock could have his way, he would have nothing more to do with any of them; even university would be better than them. At least at university, though the classes would be most likely well below his intelligence level and therefore boring, he would be on his own.

Just the way he always preferred it. He had learned a long time ago that the only person he could trust or rely on at all was himself.

A particularly strong breeze that ruffled his curls brought Sherlock out of his thoughts, and made him aware that someone was watching him. But it wasn't anybody on the boat; there was no one near him. Turning his head, his eyes fell on a figure standing upon a tiny cliff. It was a girl who looked his own age, perhaps a year younger.

By appearance alone, she was nothing special. Her build was petite, but hardly like the current ideal for the female body. The summer dress she wore was too big on top and hardly in style. Though she was a little distance away, he could still see that her face had more plainness than beauty.

However, that did _not _mean he found her boring. The way her long auburn hair, floating behind her on the breeze, glowed in the sunlight was…not displeasing on the eyes. The way her fair skin (nearly as fair as his) complemented her perfectly was…not displeasing to know. The expression on her face intrigued him most of all. Her big brown eyes were looking at him in a way no one ever had before. There was interest and wonder there, yes, but there was also…something he couldn't describe. He only knew that it made him feel…warm in a very nice way.

So, when the girl raised a hand in a wave, his hand raised in return of the greeting before he lost sight of her when the yacht had passed the cliff.

* * *

Neither could know that this moment was only the beginning of the greatest journey the two would take. Together.

* * *

**A/N: **_This oneshot was inspired by the song "Journey On" from the musical _Ragtime, _when two strangers see each other from boats and wave as they pass, not knowing that their fates will be closely linked as time passes._

_The next one-word prompt is…_**laugh.**

_PLEASE review and send me your ideas and suggestions for the next prompt!_


	4. Laugh

**Laugh**

Usually, Sherlock Holmes was a bundle of energy, no matter if it was on a case or at home with his family. But this evening, after closing up a long case that had ranked an 8, he was exhausted in the best possible way. Now he walked up the steps to 221B Baker Street, eager to consume a good meal and be with his girls again.

But his steps slowed and quieted significantly when Sherlock came halfway up the stairs. The noise coming from 221B was quiet and muffled behind the closed door, but Sherlock's exceptional sense of hearing picked it up clearly. A smile spread across his face as he quietly climbed all the way up the stairs, making sure not to make any noise so as not to interrupt the music he was hearing inside.

Well, technically, it wasn't music, but to Sherlock, the effect it had was more beautiful than any music.

When he had reached the landing, he stood at the front door and silently, slowly, opened it and peeked inside. On the carpet of the sitting room, his wife sat on the carpet with her legs crossed. In front of her, resting on a baby pillow in the shape of a panda bear, was their baby daughter, Alethea. He could just see the head of dark curls resting on the pillow; Molly's gaze was on the baby so did not see the door open. She used her fingers to tickle Alethea's tummy, her cheeks, and her feet. The result was the baby bursting into musical baby giggles, which caused Molly to join in with her own laughter.

The combined sound of the two of them laughing filled the consulting detective's heart in a way he didn't even know was possible.

He would happily have stood there for a long time just watching and listening to his girls, but one particular burst of giggles from Alethea broke his resolve to be an invisible witness.

Molly looked up from the baby when she heard the beautiful sound of Sherlock's deep laugh. Her own face lit up in a smile to match his own. "Sherlock!" she softly exclaimed, not wanting to startle the baby.

Molly reached out a hand for him to come closer. After stripping himself of his coat, scarf, and blazer, Sherlock walked over to them, lowered himself to the carpet, and rested his head on Molly's thigh, his face turned to their daughter. Molly's hand sank into his curls, and he would have purred if he had been a feline.

Baby Alethea's face lit up in happy coos and a toothless grin at the sight of her Daddy, her little arms reaching out to him. Sherlock grinned, and reached out his hand to tickle his daughter's tummy, to elicit more of those beautiful giggles from her. But his daughter surprised him by snatching a finger in each of her tiny hands when he reached out. He tugged back, but the baby held fast, giggling in glee, her big brown eyes sparkling.

Sherlock did not just chuckle in response; his laughter was booming and full and without restraint. So was Molly's and Alethea's at this most beautiful sound.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson was just about to slip out of the building to do some shopping when a beautiful sound stopped her in her tracks. Having a good feeling where it was coming from, the kind landlady looked up, and saw the door to 221B was open. Out of it she could hear the combined sounds of Sherlock's, Molly's, and precious Alethea's laughter.

A happy tear and happy smile came to Mrs. Hudson's face. She was tempted to walk up and take a peek, but restrained herself. The last thing she wanted to do was disturb the happy moment taking place now.

The beautiful sound of the Holmes laughter resonated all the way out of the door.

* * *

**A/N: **_This one took a long time to think up, because there are so many possibilities! So I finally settled on some family fluff! _

_The next one-word prompt is…_**chances.**


	5. Chances

**Chances**

Numbers.

As Sherlock Holmes sat in the whitewashed waiting room of St. Bart's ER, this was the dominant subject turning over and over in his mind palace: numbers. Though science had always been his strongest suit, he liked to think he had a good mind for math. After all, if any subject were completely logical and always black and white, it was arithmetic.

More specifically, numbers related to the measure of time were being calculated and recalculated in Sherlock's vast cranium, as he waited in terror to learn the fate of the woman who held his heart.

One second. That was how long it would have taken him to say to her those three words that she most deserved to hear.

Five years, two months, three days, seven hours and three minutes. That was how long he had known her – right up until the moment she had lost consciousness after taking a bullet that had been meant for him.

His total came to one-hundred sixty-three million, two-hundred thirty-four thousand, nine-hundred and eighty seconds he had known her. 163,234,980 he could have said those three words to her.

163,234,980 chances he had let pass him by. Why?

_Because I'm an idiot._

Sherlock had just checked the clock to see how long it had been since he and John had brought her in – two hours, twenty-seven minutes – when the doors to the ER swung open. His head immediately turned towards it, and out stepped John. Sherlock sprang out of his seat and made his way towards his friend.

John, now dressed in a pair of scrubs, was the very picture of exhaustion, his steps heavy and lines in his brow.

"Well?" Sherlock demanded in a hushed, frightened voice. He didn't trust any deduction his eyes made in his anxious state of mind.

John took a deep breath and met Sherlock's eyes. "The bullet was a quarter of an inch from her aorta. If we hadn't been with her and had been further from St. Bart's, I can say without a doubt that she would be dead. But we've removed the bullet, and she's getting transfusions to make up for the blood she's lost." A small smile crossed John's lips. "She should make a full recovery."

Hearing John's words and processing them in the next moment, Sherlock would never be able to find the words to describe the sheer relief that washed over his being like a wave. His eyes closed, and he vaguely felt John's hands hold his arms to steady him. "Steady, Sherlock. She's going to be all right, I promise you."

Sherlock managed to pull himself together and open his eyes. "I want to – I mean…may I go to her?"

"She hasn't come to yet, Sherlock, and I can't say for sure when she will. But I know she'll be happy if you're there when she does. She's in Room 32 down the hall."

Sherlock immediately started walking past John, but was stopped by a firm hand on his arm. Looking at John's face, Sherlock saw an expression where bullshit came to die. "I hope you realize the magnitude of what that woman has done for you, Sherlock. She saved your life by nearly sacrificing her own. I can't let you go in there if you're only going to treat her as you've always treated her. Don't go in there unless you can give her what she's given you, or else you'll break her."

The two men stood looking at each other for a minute that felt like an hour. Sherlock seemed to take seriously the ultimatum in John's warning, and John could see the emotions play across Sherlock's face before they ended on something resolutely sincere, and the detective could only say one thing to his friend:

"No more chances will pass me by."

Thankfully, this was more than enough for John, and he let go of Sherlock's thin arm with a satisfied look. He then opened his free hand – which was balled in a fist – and held it out to Sherlock, palm up. Resting on it was a mangled bullet. "May this help you remember that."

Sherlock looked at the object in pure hatred for a moment, and then he took it and placed it in his trouser pocket. He took a few steps away from the doctor, then stopped and went back to John. For a moment, he didn't know what to do with himself. Then, he placed a hand on John's shoulder and gripped it tightly. "Thank you," he said, looking John in the eye. One did not have to be a genius to see how much he meant it.

John smiled, and placed his own hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "My pleasure. I told you I was very good, didn't I?" The two men chuckled and dropped their hands. "Go. Your lady awaits."

Sherlock was too relieved to scoff at the tease, and obeyed the good doctor's orders.

* * *

When Molly woke up, it was slowly and in confusion. Her chest felt quite sore, and this caused her to remember exactly why.

_I'm not dead, then…_

Her eyes opened and she gave a soft groan. Her vision was suddenly filled with a face she thought that she'd never see again. The most beautiful man in her world. "Molly?" he breathed, in a voice she had never heard before: timid, soft, worried, daring to hope.

Immense relief flooded her at the sight. Her voice was dry and hoarse. "You're…alright?…Not hurt?"

Sherlock closed his eyes as he sighed in relief, and a tear rolled down his cheek. Molly could not resist: she reached out and tenderly wiped the tear off his magnificent cheekbone. Sherlock's hand came up and covered her own, his bright eyes opening again and looking into her own. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm…" She had to clear her throat to speak more clearly.

"Of course," said Sherlock, and leaned over to a jug and cup that were placed on the table by her hospital bed. He filled the cup, and gingerly lifted Molly's head a bit so she could drink. She drank slowly, but emptied the cup. "More?"

Molly shook her head, which Sherlock rested back on the pillow gently.

There was a gentle knock on the door, and the both of then looked to see a smiling John standing in the doorway. "Sleeping Beauty awakes," he said, and stepped up to Molly, taking her free hand. "Any pain?"

"Just sore," said Molly softly. "Nothing I can't handle."

"All right," said John. "I'm going to check your vitals now that you're awake, see the progress you've made." John looked at Sherlock, who nodded and stepped to the window. Molly's hand instantly felt cold and bereft.

Looking from Sherlock's figure to John's face, she asked, "How long have I been out?"

"Ten hours and thirty-eight minutes," was Sherlock's crisp reply before John could give a more general answer.

Her eyes filled with a bit of fear. "Did…were they all caught, or…"

John nodded reassuringly as he listened to her heart and lungs. "Mycroft's men got all of them. The danger is over."

Molly shut her eyes in relief, and stayed still while John did his work. When he was finished, she opened her eyes and touched her fingers to her bandaged chest. "Did you…?" she asked John.

He nodded. "Sherlock wouldn't let anybody else do it," he said with a chuckle.

Molly looked again at Sherlock's back and had to smile as she turned her head back to John. "Thank you," she said sincerely.

John smiled, bent down and kissed her forehead. "Thank _you,_" he said, nodding towards Sherlock. "Just call a nurse if you need anything. I'll be back later."

With that, John left the room. Molly felt suddenly awkward and nervous, left with only Sherlock in the room, considering what she had done for him – on an impulse, yes, but still for him. Looking at him again, she saw that he was now looking at her, his eyes still bright.

"Sherlock…" she began, but didn't know what else to say. Perhaps that was enough, however, for in the next moment, Sherlock was with her, sitting on the side of the bed, leaning over her. His hands gently cupped her face and he looked into her eyes for a long time. He seemed to be trying to speak, but no words would come out as his eyes drank in her face that was slowly regaining color.

Hating to break the spell – and hoping she didn't – Molly whispered, "It's all right. I'm not going anywhere. I'm sorry if I –"

"I love you."

Her eyes widened and filled with tears. "_What? Really?_"

"Yes. I apologize it took you saving my life yet again to realize it, but it is the truth. I understand if you do not believe me, since I have sorely abused your kindness and help in the past, but I promise that I will prove myself sincere in any way I must. I will change whatever you would like me to change in order to –"

His words were stopped by Molly putting a finger to his mouth. Her face lit up in a huge smile as happy tears rolled down her cheeks. "I've always loved you, silly, and I wouldn't change one single thing about you."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to look shocked. "…what…really?"

Molly laughed at how he unintentionally echoed her reaction back to her. She nodded. "Truly. I know when you say horrible things, you don't mean to cause me pain, and you've gotten much better since you've come back." Her fingers sinking into his curls, she brought his head down to rest his forehead against her own. "I'm so proud of you."

They stayed in that position, eyes closed, for a few minutes, until Sherlock could no longer resist, and kissed her lips (getting his first kiss in the process) very gently, mindful of her condition. Molly smiled against his lips before kissing him back with all her heart.

* * *

An hour later, John walked back to Molly's room to check on her, but stopped as he opened the door and looked inside.

Sherlock was lying beside Molly on the hospital bed, his head on her right shoulder and his arm draped across her waist. Molly's left arm covered his, while her right hand played with his curls, her right arm beneath him. Both had their eyes closed, and both looked blissfully at peace.

John smiled and quietly shut the door. He knew two things without a doubt: Molly was going to be more than fine, and Sherlock would no longer let any more chances go by.

* * *

**A/N: **_When I read this word prompt, a lyric from the musical "Carousel" immediately came to mind: "Longing to tell you but afraid and shy, I'd let my golden chances pass me by," and this story immediately came to mind. If it's a bit cheesy, you can't really avoid that in this situation. Besides, we all need a little fluff these days. :D_

_Please send your reviews my way, and ideas for the next prompt listed below!_

_The next one-word prompt is: _**glass.**


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